Nils Finn pushed one ski farther forward with might; The other held fast,--he reeled left and right. --"Pull it up!" rumbled yonder. Nils' tears wet the snow, while he kicked and he struck; The more that he kicked there, the deeper he stuck. --"That was good!" rumbled yonder. The birch-trees, they danced, and the pine-trees said "Hoo!" They more were than one,--were a hundred and two. --"Know your way?" rumbled yonder. A laugh shook the ridge till it made the snow fly; But Nils clenched his fists and he swore 't was a lie. --"Now beware!" rumbled yonder. The snow-field yawned wide, and the heavens came low; Nils thought 't was now time for him also to go. --"Is he gone?" rumbled yonder.-- Two skis in the snow looked about everywhere, But saw nothing much; for there was nothing there. --"Where is Nils?" rumbled yonder. THE MAIDENS' SONG (FROM HALTE HULDA) Good-morning, sun, 'mid the leaves so green -- Mind of youth in the dales' deep reaches, Smile that brightens their somber speeches, Heaven's gold on our earth-dust seen! Good-morning, sun, o'er the royal tower! Kindly thou beckonest forth each maiden; Kindle each heart as a star light-laden, Twinkling so clear, though a sad night lower! Good-morning, sun, o'er the mountain-side! Light the land that still sleep disguises Till it awakens and fresh arises For yonder day in thy warmth's full tide! THE DOVE (FROM HALTE HULDA) I saw a dove fear-daunted, By howling storm-blast driven; Where waves their power vaunted, From land it had been riven. No cry nor moan it uttered, I heard no plaint repeated; In vain its pinions fluttered -- It had to sink, defeated. THE MOTHER'S SONG (FROM ARNE) Lord! Oh, hold in Thy hand my child, Guard by the river its playing! Send Thou Thy Spirit as comrade mild, Lest it be lost in its straying! Deep is the water and false the ground. Lord, if His arms shall the child surround, Drowned it shall not be, but living, Till Thou salvation art giving. Mother, whom loneliness befalls, Knowing not where it is faring, Goes to the door, and its name there calls; Breezes no answer are bearing. This is her thought, that everywhere He and Thou for it always care; Jesus, its little brother, Follows it home to mother. LAMBKIN MINE (FROM ARNE) Kille, kille, lambkin mine, Though it often be hard to climb Over the rocks upswinging, Follow thy bell's sweet ringing! Kille, kille, lambkin mine, Take good care of that fleece-coat thine! Sewed to one and another, Warm it shall keep my mother. Kille, kille, lambkin mine, Feed and fatten thy flesh so fine! Know, you dear little sinner, Mother will have it for dinner! BALLAD OF TAILOR NILS (FROM ARNE) If you were born before yesterday, Surely you've heard about Tailor Nils, who flaunts him so gay. If it's more than a week that you've been here, Surely you've heard how Knut Storedragen got a lesson severe.